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The end of the attack came with a feint to the right, Jarmee leaning to parry it only to find his brother's blade elsewhere. A stinging blow to his back followed by a kick to his rear end sent Jarmee sprawling over, his blade dropped so he could use his hands for balance, which he never recovered- but they did help keep him from getting hurt when he landed.
"You're sloppy, Jar," came the inevitable comment. Dracon sheathed his practice blade, and offered Jarmee a hand up. "You could be quite good, though- if you practiced."
Jarmee rolled his eyes. "Again." The brothers began the drill again, leading to the same inevitable conclusion. Drac sighed. "Jarmee, that's the same mistake you made last time. Do it right."
"Why bother?" Jarmee muttered to himself, but figured making his brother happy would get him out of the practice ring earlier than bickering about it. The next time through, he watched for the first feint, and was ready for the second one that had sent him sprawling every other time through the drill. Yet, as always, Jarmee's brother won the miniature duel.
His brother nodded with satisfaction. "Not bad. Not all that good, but it could be worse. Again."
Jarmee glared at him. "Why?" he snapped. "I did it, didn't I?"
"Yes, but not well. You'll learn to do it well, or die at on an assassin's blade."
Jar rolled his eyes again. "I'm the third son. Who would want to assassinate me? You're in more danger of that."
"And I know how to get myself out of it!" Dracon replied, advancing on his brother without warning. And, to his surprise, Jarmee was ready: he came back with an offensive string of his own, which lasted only long enough for his brother to recover from the shock. Smiling, Drac unloosed the full fury of his talent, and there was nothing Jarmee could do.
His brother helped him up again when it was finished. "Again," he said cheerfully.
"Why are you doing this to me?" Jar demanded, this time preparing himself for the attack from his brother.
"Well," Drac said between thrusts, "Father and Lor and a few councilors are debating what to do about you. Between your attitude, the wenching, and the fact that you never do any real work, you've caused more problems than you know." He finished his attack, as Jarmee picked himself up. "So they wanted me to keep you busy."
"Great," Jar muttered, not bothering for his brother to give him the cue to prepare. "What did I do?"
"Well, Lord Timberly is ready to come after you with a sword in one hand and a hangman's noose in the other for sleeping with his fair daughter; Jessa's three brothers had to be held off by a few guards last week for the same reason; Tyron hasn't seen you for lessons in weeks; you drink too much, you talk back to the Lords- Jar, do you realize what Father is going to do to you? - Get a drink, if you like."
Jar nodded his thanks, sheathed the practice blade and made for a satchel he'd already filled with water. "I didn't realize Jessa and Kya's families were so upset," he said. "If I'd know, I'd-"
"You'd have done just what you did, and you know it," Drac said accusingly. "Look, Father isn't going to have much choice, the Lords are going to force him into sending you to Greenwall for training right after you take your sword."
"They're what?!" Jar sputtered. Greenwall was the home of the High King's Army, which- despite Clan alliances- would always remain loyal to the High King. They were probably the best-trained army in the world, and that was because of their rules. For one, rank couldn't get you out of work, and work was something Jarmee avoided at all cost. Second, breaking their rules resulted in severe punishment, something else Jarmee avoided whenever possible. Greenwall was not somewhere Jarmee wanted to be.
Dracon nodded. "If nothing else, you'd be obedient. If everything we hear is true, they're out to break spirits at Greenwall. You may not have skill, but you do have spirit- and I'm going to guess if you're sent, it'll be with orders to make you a Proper Knight."
"Damn." Jar sagged against a wall. "Oh, damn."
"Indeed. But look on the bright side, you're taking your sword next week."
"Joy." Jar sighed. True, for a Prince, taking a sword was an honor, a right-of-passage, and something he'd looked forward to for years. But it also meant that his useless position- third son- would make it easy for them to send him to Greenwall.
"Hey, don't worry. I'm sure if you vowed to change your evil ways and started to actually work, you could get out of it. You have a lot of potential with the blade, just not enough practice." He paused, as Jarmee set his water down. "Speaking of practice, when you're ready."
Jar nodded, unsheathed his blade, and prepared to hit the ground.
Deeply personal, the monk had said. He carried on for almost an hour about becoming a man, about responsibility, and about how Jarmee needed to accept both. The ceremony seemed to drag on forever, and despite having overheard servants talking about Greenwall- his now inevitable fate, although they hadn't told him officially, yet- he was excited.
Taking a sword from the High King's Armory was supposed to be deeply personal, the collection of blades was vast, each one with historical significance. Tyron, the Royal Tutor, had tried to make Jarmee memorize each blade, where it came from, how its previous owner died, what year, what battle...
Jarmee hadn't bothered, as he didn't see any point to the memorization. He'd be the first to admit that he was no wonder with a blade, but even he knew to chose a blade based on balance, weight, and general feeling, not by historical significance.
But now, having endured fifty minutes of babble from an old religious man, Jarmee would be left by himself in the Armory to make the deeply personal choice. He wandered through rows of armor, looking for something that caught his fancy.
Several times, he'd pick up a blade and test it. None of them seemed any better than a practice blade to his hand, and he placed them all back on the shelves. Each blade was labeled, but in runes, something else Jarmee despised.
It seemed hours before something finally caught his eye. The sword itself was fairly plain, except for a deep blue jewel set in its hilt. He started to work out the name in runes, but gave up, his laziness taking over. The blade rested in a dust-covered sheath, not locked like the rest of them, but sitting open. He wondered why this sword was of so little value that it would be left for any footpad to take, and why the sword was so unpopular that no one had touched it in decades- the dust was that thick.
He blew off dust, and carefully tried the blade. It seemed to fit his hand perfectly, he ran through a series and the sword cut the air. Never had he moved so fluidly before, and never had swordwork seemed so natural. He examined the jewel in the hilt again, surprised that no writing or runes decorated it. If it wasn't for the jewel itself, the blade would have been perfectly plain.
He stared at the jewel for a moment. It seemed almost as if a blue spark glowed within, and he couldn't look away. It felt almost like there was something alive about that jewel, but Jarmee figured it had been from the Age of Magic; some of those swords were supposedly enchanted, and supposedly the enchantments lasted through the present day.
He strapped on the sword belt and sheathed the blade, figuring that it was as good a choice as any other he'd seen. And something about it felt right to him. Satisfied, he walked back to the adjoining room where his father, brothers and the High King himself would be waiting.
"Young Prince Jarmee, might I inspect your choice?" the High King asked. Jarmee knelt respectfully, drawing the sword and offering it. He watched the purple-haired King reach for the blade, lay his had on the hilt---
And pull it back as if he'd been burnt. He shook his hand in the air, peering curiously at the jewel. "What blade is this, young Prince?" he asked.
"Your Highness, I know not," Jarmee answered. True, he usually ignored rules of etiquette and politeness, but this was the High King, and maybe- just barely possibly- if His Highness liked Jarmee, it could be possible to get out of going to Greenwall.
"Hmmm..." Drac said thoughtfully. "There is a legend."
"Oh, young scholar?" asked the King.
"They say that the Sword of the High King was unusually simple... I don't recall the full description, Your Highness, but the blade did have a jewel. The legends do say no one can take it other than the one destined to become High King..." Drac shook his head. "Forgive me, Your Highness. Obviously impossible."
The Sword of the High King was a legend that even Jarmee had heard of, which claimed that some sort of magical jewel had saved the Elves from destruction at the hands of an evil wizard. The wizard had been banished magically for a thousand years, by the Jewel and the man who held it. Only one man could hold it, and he was made the High King. The Jewel became part of his sword, and after he died, none could take it. The Jewel would either burn any one who held it, or the sword would be too heavy to hold.
Since then, only two or three people had taken up the blade. Each time someone did, he was proclaimed the High King, and each time he had saved the Elves from a semi-certain doom.
It hadn't even occurred to Jarmee that this could be that blade, or that the High King's Sword was anything more than a legend. And he certainly had trouble believing he'd become any sort of King, let alone a High King. Considering he was only a trouble-making third son who was going to be sent to Greenwall, the possibility had never even entered his mind.
"Impossible," the High King proclaimed. "It fits the description, but no third son could be a High King."
Jarmee's father, the King of the Green Elves, gave the High King a long, hard look. "Perhaps it is time that the Violet Elves were relieved of their power, Your Highness," he commented; a threat mixed with insult but phrased politely. Drac was deep in thought, Lor, Jarmee's oldest brother, had a look of open shock mixed with scorn, the High King was scowling at Jarmee and the blade he'd chosen, and Jarmee's father seemed to be contemplating something, which Jarmee knew to be a look which caused trouble for someone.
Usually, it was for Jarmee; the look was one his father wore while coming up with punishment. As far as Jarmee knew, he'd done nothing to deserve punishment, merely chose the blade that seemed best for him. And then Jarmee realized that if it was the High King's Sword, then-
Hell. Then I'm supposed to be some sort of High King, and that means I'm supposed to save the Elves from nearly certain doom. But even if it's not, if Father can convince enough people that it's true, he'll shed blood to see me crowned- and himself in a position of great power. But who's blood would be shed, mine or his?
"You speak too bluntly, my Lord," the High King snapped. "There is no proof that this blade is the High King's, other than a description- and the boy has no memory of the name of the sword he chose. Before you start playing for power, perhaps we ought to confirm that the boy deserves that power."
It wasn't a question, it was an order. Jarmee lead them back through the Armory, to the place where a blank spot in the dust showed that the blade had sat there for generations. Drac wiped dust from the placard that held the runes, and carefully pronounced a few syllables in Old Elvish.
It was clear from people's reactions that he'd said something significant, and equally clear from the blank look on Jarmee'1s face that he had no idea what. Obligingly, Drac translated: "The Blade of the High King. Who-ever may take this up takes up the burden of ruling all five Clans as the true High King. By the hand of King Elias Swordbearer."
Drac let out a low whistle, and didn't even have to explain to Jarmee what that meant. King Elias was probably the best High King that the Elves had ever known, and (according to legend,) the last King who had been able to take up the jeweled sword. And if he'd written the inscription, the orders it contained were the law.
"I don't believe that this boy would take up a blade of such importance. If what you have told me of him is true, he'd be to wary of the work that went with it," the High King said. "And the blade is supposed to provide skills at sword work. From what I've heard of that, the boy is as far from talented as a child."
"True enough, Your Highness," Drac said cheerfully. "But if the blade is going to provide Jar with those skills, so what? If legend is true, then Jar should be able to win any fight- or nearly any fight, anyway." It seemed that Drac, at least, was willing to believe the blade was legendary. The High King may not have believed it, but he had seen the contemplating look on Jarmee's father's face, and knew he had to disprove it.
"Then the two of you shall fight," the High King proclaimed. "I've been informed you've taken your brother's training upon yourself, so if any would know how to defend against him, it would be you. Begin whenever you ready."
"What, with our actual blades?" Drac asked, supprised. "Practice is one thing, but with a real sword I'm likely to hurt him."
His confidence in me is overwhelming, Jar thought bitterly. I don't especially wan to be the High King, but just once I'd like to offer him a hand up from the floor. He laid his hand on the sword's hilt, and a trickle of static energy ran through him.
"Precisely. If the boy escapes unscathed, we will know he is indeed destined to be the High King after my death. Begin."
Drac looked from the High King to his father, and then to Jarmee. He shrugged, a look of smugness around him, and drew his own sword. Pushing green hair from his eyes, Jar did the same and nodded for the fight to begin.
Drac attacked confidently, quickly, and without holding anything back. He didn't want to hurt his younger brother, but also wanted to get this over with as quickly as he could- it would be nice if Jar was the High King, but there was no point in kidding himself. Jarmee would be the first to admit he's not High King material, he thought.
Jarmee returned each blow gently, knowledge flooding into his mind. He didn't know where it came from, but he knew exactly what his brother was doing and how to counter it- and he moved as though he'd practiced eight hours a day since he was old enough to walk.
Frowning, Drac broke off his attack and backed up a few paces. He took a deep breath, then moved in again. Jar countered him again, and felt a series of moves he'd never tried before- never even seen done- flow from him. Amazed, Drac did his best to counter, but this time it was his turn to see a loss in the near future.
Moments later, he felt his sword fall from his hands, a well-calculated kick take out his legs, and he fell. For a few seconds, Drac was dizzy, then he regained his composure and titled his head up- to see Jarmee's blade even with his chest. "Jarmee?" he murmured in awe, then "I yield."
Jar sheathed his blade, his face torn between shock and smug satisfaction, and offered Drac a hand up. "Oh, my," their father said. "That was amazing."
"I know I never taught you that, Jar- I've never seen it before!" Drac admitted, somehow cheerful despite his loss.
Jarmee's oldest brother said nothing, but for some reason the look on his face was not as happy as Jarmee might have hoped. The High King's expression was worse, anger mingled with- he didn't know what it was mingled with, maybe fear, maybe something else entirely.
"It seems you have proven yourself," the High King spat. "You will be gone from here before nightfall, on your way to your own stronghold- to finish training, of course." With that, he spun and left.
Drac retrieved his own blade, and after sheathing it turned to see his brother. Amazement had given way to dread on Jar's face. "Jarmee," their father started.
"I didn't- I mean, I wasn't- It wasn't- I'd never have-" he took a deep breath. "If I'd know that was going to happen, I'd never have picked the sword up... Is it too late to chose another?"
"If you'd studied more, you'd have recognized the sword. Or at least read the runes," Lor snapped.
Jar was still to numb from surprise and dread to have a witty response, and that said volumes more than any answer would have.